Beyond the barn stood an old two-story farmhouse. It had been handsome once, in a colonial “five over four with a door” style that seemed out of place here, with a variety of sheds and other outbuildings attached to its flanks. But time had been unkind to it: the outbuildings had fallen into disrepair, and the house itself hadn’t been painted in at least a decade. A few of the shutters on the second story were leaning away from their windows.
The entire place was cloaked in the silence of early morning, mist rising from the lake beyond the farmstead.
Pendergast motioned, and they crept into the barn. In the gloom, Coldmoon could make out various machinery, most of which was unfamiliar to him. There was also a hayloft and what looked like cow stalls and a milking apparatus, long abandoned.
“So what’re we looking for in here?”
“What’s the term? Fishing expedition. This will be our only chance to investigate.”
But there appeared to be nothing of interest. They exited the open barn door on the far side of the structure. Pendergast stopped a moment, pausing to take in the surroundings. Then he approached the farmhouse, Coldmoon at his side. Together they mounted the steps, and Coldmoon instinctively put his back to one side of the door while Pendergast rang the bell.
There was no response. Pendergast rang again; rapped loudly; rang a third time. Finally, Coldmoon heard a stirring within. A minute later the front door opened partway, revealing an old man dressed in long johns, who—with his white hair and beard—would have resembled Father Christmas if he weren’t so thin. In one hand he held a Remington 870, muzzle pointed at the floor.
“What’s all the ruckus?” he asked. “You sick?”
“We’re quite well, thank you,” Pendergast replied.
“Then what the hell are you disturbing me for at seven in the morning?” The man’s eyes had an almost mischievous sparkle, but the barrel of the shotgun lifted about twenty degrees toward the horizontal.
Pendergast had his ID and shield out while the weapon was still in motion. “We’d like to ask you just a couple of questions, Dr. Quincy.”
The old man considered this. Then he shrugged and stepped back from the door. Quickly, Pendergast stepped in, followed by Coldmoon. The man led them down a short hallway and into a room that once was probably a consultation office, full of old magazines and some medieval-looking medical diagrams hanging on the walls. While everything was old, it was spotless and organized. There was a desk, an examining table, two chairs. Quincy slipped behind the desk and gestured for the agents to sit.
“I’d offer you coffee, but it’s too damned early,” the man said, moving a stack of medical journals aside to clear his desktop. Something in his economy of movement made Coldmoon realize that, though the man was old, he must have been virile, even formidable, in his prime.
“We appreciate your letting us in,” Pendergast said.
“You mentioned you had a couple of questions,” Dr. Quincy said. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
Pendergast gestured as if to say this was fair enough. “You offered medical assistance when we rang the door, I believe. Are you still practicing?”
The man laughed. “Now, how should I answer that to an officer of the law?”
“If I weren’t an officer of the law, and I came here with a caddis fly hook stuck in my thumb, what would you do?”
The man considered this. “Well, seeing as only locals ever come by here, I’d extract the hook, stitch the thumb up if necessary, apply some Betadine, and—since my surgical license expired fifteen years ago—tell the patient to be more careful with his fly fishing.”
He laughed, and Pendergast gave a slight smile in return. “That’s a shrewd answer, Doctor, and I didn’t hear a word of it. Besides, my interest lies more in your memories than it does in the present.”
“Is that a fact?” said the old man. “And why would two FBI agents have any interest in my memories?”
“Because we have a lot of threads, and we’re hoping you could help us braid them together. Now, I do know something of your background—please tell me if I’m mistaken about anything. Fifty years or so ago, you were enrolled at the University of Washington School of Medicine—the only medical school in the state at that time.”
The man nodded silently.
“Your family ran the farm here: raspberries, dairy products, apples, and turkeys. Your mother had died while you were in college and, with you as the only child, your father looked after the farm while you went to medical school. Correct so far?”